Lessons Learned
by we were here
Summary: Two wrongs don't always make a right.
1. Playing Victim

**Disclaimer-**

I do not own the television show _Southland_.

**Author's Note-**

For the life of me I can't remember what episode this particular scene is from (season 1, definitely), so I'm just basing it off on the good ol' memory. "Him" in this story is referring to John Cooper (for a reason). Rated 'M' for potty-mouths. Your thoughts are much appreciated. :)

**

* * *

**

**Ben**

the victim can be the suspect; the suspect can be the victim

**

* * *

**It's barely nine o'clock in the morning, and already the polyester material that makes up your navy blue Los Angeles Police Department uniform is stuck to your sweat-coated body like a second skin.

The sun beats down on the hood of His cruiser, heavy rays glaring against the windshield. You pull your arms off the dashboard and throw one across your face to try and block the too bright light from burning the pupils of your bloodshot eyes, 'cuz you were stupid enough this _one_ morning to leave your sunglasses at home.

(Another constant reminder that you'd been up since midnight, tossing and turning in your little bed in your small condo on the hillside of Beverly Hills – no pun intended – unable to ignore the noises – screams gun shots sirens screams fizz of beer sliding down your throat – that pounded at the back of your skull 'till it hurt so much you thought your eyeballs were going to pop out of your eye sockets and your brain was going to fill in the slots.)

His hands move the steering wheel to the right; wheels jerk against pavement, rolling to a stop outside a seedy-looking convenience store on some street you'd never been to. Fuck goddamnit, you want to ask, why did we stop?

He turns to you and then His mouth is moving, so fast that you can barely understand what He's saying, the blood pounding in your ears is _so loud_. You've already stopped paying attention. It's just a blur of syllables and radio static and white noise growing louder, louder, anyway – no need to stop counting how many times your heart slams against your rib cage.

"Got it?"

Oh, Jesus, He's stopped talking, _why the fuck_ _has He stopped talking?_ And now He's staring at you with those baby blues that can frown and sigh at the same time. You go through the mechanics of opening the car door in your head: unbuckle seatbelt, place fingers on the handle, clutch the metal bar, release, push open.

He dips his mouth back in to yell at you when you don't follow Him.

"Get out of the fucking car, Sherman."

You hate yourself when He yells and hate yourself more when He doesn't. He makes you feel wanted, needy, like an expensive porcelain China doll that can be looked at but not touched, 'cuz no matter how much the little girl wants to play with it if she smudges the figurine's little rosy red cheeks and tears a brush through fake hair then it will be completely ruined, broken beyond repair (just like you).

Hardy har har.

You stumble out after Him, the sudden wash of dry air making your tongue stick to the inside of your cheek. It must be at least one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, so hot out you're surprised the asphalt hasn't already started melting into puddles beneath your feet.

He tells you to one: get your head out of your ass; and two: go inside to see why the hell the two of you'd been radio-ed out here so early. You agree with Him on the last part, but just through the windows you can already see an ugly argument brewing that makes your empty stomach jump into your throat.

When you enter the store, a bell chimes above your head and you nearly shit your intestines out at the sudden clatter. Fingers laced around the handle of the gun you'd ripped out from your holster, you crouch down and hurriedly crawl up each aisle bent over, hearing voices rise and rise in a foreign language – Hindi? – that block out the ones screaming in your head.

You find yourself at the back of the store, pointing the barrel at the man who's standing behind the counter. Startled, he whips around and starts screaming at you, cheeks wet and shiny, and you start screaming at him, too. Tell him to get down, put his hands behind his back.

When he doesn't do anything, continues roaring and choking on spit and unshed tears, you swing out a fist and watch his shaking frame crumple to the floor. Your gun finds itself back you're your holster and you hop over the counter, damn-near stepping on his neck.

Metal handcuffs wrap their greedy mouths around his wrists and you haul his arms up, legs struggling to move forward. You kick on the back of his heels and push him out the door, tell him to sit down onto the curb next to another stringy-looking man in a dirty white tee-shirt.

You glance at Him, notice the scowl on His face somewhere in between the sun and the shadows, and you frown, too.

He points at White Tee with a stubby finger. "The victim can be the suspect." Then, at Tear Jones. "The suspect can be the victim."

Shit. Fuck.

This is new, you want to tell Him, scream until you can't hear anything else except your vocal chords tearing apart. This is fucking _new _and He doesn't need to be such a hard-ass since half the time you're still trying to figure out how to breathe.

But, like always, He doesn't get it and He never _will _get it.

('Cuz after all, you're just a fucking kid.)

So you keep your lips shut for the rest of the day. You've learned your lesson.


	2. Scars

**John**

whatever doesn't kill you is gonna leave a scar

* * *

The first time you see him, all the blood in your head rushes down to your balls and you can only think of one word: fuck.

He's one a them fresh-outta-Bev. Hills types: perfect hair—colored wheat—and mucky green eyes that are trying _so hard_ to look intimidating against the morning sunlight as he struts across the parking lot. Shoulders are pulled back; his eyebrows level with your neck. Innocent—a lil' like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. But this ain't no Emerald City.

He grins, somewhat lopsided, right hand outstretched.

"Ben Sherman."

You don't shake his hand.

**000**

"Why do you hate me?"

"What?"

"Why do you hate me?"

"What the hell you talking about, rookie?"

"Nothing."

"'Nothing', what? You can't leave me hangin' like that, 'cuz now I wanna know. What'd you just say?"

"I asked you why you hated me."

"I don't hate you, Sherman."

"Why do you always call me that? I have a name—"

"—I know—"

"—so you could call me that. Why don't you?"

_Because your name makes me salivate, and by the way, don't you _ever_ shut the fuck up?_

"Forget it."

If only it was that easy.

**000**

"Seventy-five."

You glare, hoping to some God that you don't look as shitty as you feel. Underneath the bathroom's dingy lights, the gay dealer from San Francisco you'd cornered in the back of the bar earlier doesn't look so tan anymore. More like a puke-green, enough to make you think of Sherman's eyes (and that blonde hair, so carefully cropped you wanna mess it up just to see how pissed he'd get…)

Damn.

You fish out a hundred from your wallet and toss it over, scowling. "Here."

He hands you the Rx with: "Get some help, dude."

"Fuck you, _dude_."

**000**

"What seems to be the problem?"

"These hoes—they always in my house."

"Well, how do they get there?"

"My husband."

"And you decided to call 911 _because_…?"

"I'm sick an' tired of this shit!"

"Then get help, ma'am."

His puke-green eyes are burning holes into your aching back. Though it's only mid-afternoon, harsh sunlight is beating down on your head, frying the bald spot above your left ear.

"But I don't know where to go!"

You don't need to turn around to hear what he's screaming:

hypocrite.

Some place deep inside of you wants to believe that he's wrong.

**000**

He raises his voice over the rush of static blaring from the radio.

You won't turn it off no matter how much he bitches—white noise is the only thing that helps drown out his voice, not counting the ones in your head. He talks too much, never listens, and even with all the windows rolled down, the air is so dry you feel your throat go up in flames. Over the dashboard, the EXIT HERE sign to the rehab center Dewey's staying at never looked so appealing.

You gun the pedal to the floor (what a paradox) and fly.

**000**

"Hi, my name is Dewey, and I'm a recovering alcoholic."

"Hi, Dewey."

"These two guys are my buddies. Ben"—a stubby finger at Sherman—"and John"—a stubby finger at you—"saved my life."

" … Wow! … _Really?_ … Amazing! …"

"We're very glad that he's getting the help he needs."

Pussy Sherman recites his little speech. You're too busy tracing a crack that divides the ceiling in half to notice that he's stopped talking, and now, it's your turn.

"Do you have anything to say, John, about Dewey's recovery? Anything you'd like to share with us?"

You fucking hate Sherman.

**

* * *

****Author's Note-**

I do not own the television show _Southland _nor the quote by Marilyn Manson, obviously.

Random scenes depicted from _Southland _in no particular order—some based on clips of episodes while others have been made up—then spat out into 100-word drabbles, John's 2nd person POV. Short, biased and gritty; just like our favorite cop on TNT. Leave a review to let me know what you think? (Personally, I like writing Ben better, lol.)


End file.
